Eagles and Swans
Chapter 1: Children of the Street
Ruthenia was trapped in the alley behind the New Town railway station, and she was running out of ideas.
In the gleaming wet slabs beneath her feet, she could feel the trains rumbling, ready to be launched into the world. Steam hissed and wings fluttered overhead, breaking the light in the alley.
Of course, the only thing Ruthenia really cared about right now was the pistol barrel in her face.
“Look—look—what do you want?” she said breathlessly, clenching her jaw so the chatter of her teeth would not be obvious. The noxious scent of smoke hung upon the after-rain air as they stared each other down in a narrow slip of sunlight. She bit back a whimper of fear. “You want money. You want my argents—is that right?”
“Give me your pouch,” growled the brunet boy clutching the gun in his hands. But his voice broke awkwardly, and now she saw that he was shaking almost as much as she.
She forced herself to look at the gun between her eyes. It was wood and brass, and she vaguely recognised its make—an Ordiva of some sort: Cerdolian, cheap, notoriously flawed. The engineering on this particular piece was so atrocious she'd have turned up her nose, had she not been a literal inch from death.
Ruthenia cast her gaze about. For something. A gutter, hanging from the eaves, just out of reach. The wheels and crankshafts of her mind began to clatter.
“That’s brass,” she said, fumbling with the crook of her umbrella. She took a step back, then a second. “You could’ve used those aurs on twenty good meals.”
“I...I don’t buy my guns,” he replied, eyes flicking to the sides before regaining focus upon her face. “Where’s your pouch?”
She came to a stop beneath the overhang of the roof. “Did you get yourself tangled up with a gang?” She let her umbrella dangle from her loose fingers. “I know where you’re headed. It’s not worth selling yourself for. Find yourself a job and do something good.”
“Find a job! The kings won’t let me find a job!” he snarled, jabbing the weapon at her face.
In a single sweep of motion, Ruthenia flung her umbrella up in the air, its crook catching on the edge of the gutter. Then she grabbed the ferrule and yanked down, hard.
At once, rusty metal groaned. Metal brackets snapped one by one. With a creak the entire gutter tilted, and a cascade of rainwater tumbled down upon them both, leaves and all. The boy yelped and blocked it with his gun hand, failing to prevent any part of him but his face from being drenched.
“Idiot!” he screamed, pulling the pistol on Ruthenia. Heart booming, she snatched his arm and twisted it, and he pulled the trigger in a last-ditch attempt to halt her—permanently—but it did not fire, merely clicked as the spark attempted and failed to light the damp gunpowder.
She flicked the accursed weapon away, and it clattered on the cobblestones.
It took a moment for the sound to register. His eyes went wide. Then he began to pant with fear, before she thrust him against the wall, stabbing her elbow into his chest.
“I’m not the idiot here,” she answered, pinning him to the wall with her forearm. He wheezed. “You’re right, the kings are the problem. But that doesn’t mean you should take any old gun they give you.”
“D-don’t report me,” he whimpered.
“To the police?” She shook her head. “I hate them as much as you do.”
“Right on time, as usual, Ruthenia.”
By the time Ruthenia rounded the corner into the alleyway between the bank and the bakery, the tremors of fear were finally beginning to desert her.
The source of the call—a young man with pitch-black hair—stood awaiting her, like a raven, his dark coat almost invisible within the shadow of the building.
“Den,” she said. “I got caught up in some funny business on the way here.”
“Aggressive lard soap salesman?”
“Kid with a gun,” she replied with a glance skyward. “Good thing it rained. I could’ve died, or lost my money pouch.”
“Children of the poor are everywhere these days,” sighed Den. “The kings could do better for them. They ought to, or they’ll bite back someday.”
“You think so?”
“Someday, not yet. They don’t care enough yet.” He shrugged.
There was a clatter from the crates behind Den. “Ruthenia!” shouted a bright voice as a lid slid down the stack.
“Hyder?” she barely had the chance to reply, before the brown-haired boy had clambered over the edge of the top one and down a staircase of crates, dashing towards her with a big grin on his face. Gordo’s head appeared where Hyder’s had been, and he stared at the newcomer as if expecting her to perform an acrobatic stunt.
Hyder tackled her with a hug and then released her with almost as much vigour.
“Hyder!” exclaimed Ruthenia. “What’s the hurry?”
“It’s been two weeks, and I guess I missed you,” he said, touching his neck. Then his eyes widened. “Is it ready? The key!”
“I’m a woman of my word,” she replied with a smile, fishing about in her pocket.
There was another rustle from behind the crate stack, and Ruthenia's stomach clenched at once. “Let me see it,” hissed a voice. Tante wasn’t one for pleasantries, and by the sounds of it, he wasn’t in the mood to be lenient either. “You’ve kept us long enough. Take our projects seriously, won’t you?”
“I’m taking it as seriously as it deserves to be,” she growled. “Here.” She slid the fishbone key out of her pocket and raised it on her palm. The others went quiet.
“Shiny,” murmured Hyder. He snatched it off her hand and held it up to his eye.
“I want to see it too,” added Gordo, extending a meaty hand in his direction.
While Hyder and Gordo passed the key back and forth between themselves, Tante finally deigned to emerge from the shadows, and he did so with a scowl. He stalked into their midst, and did not waste a moment acknowledging anyone’s presence.
“Let me have a look,” he muttered, extending a hand. Hyder promptly placed it in his bony fingers. The straw-haired knifeman twisted it about in the light. “This is what we’ve been waiting for? Is that all?”
“What, you don’t trust me?” she muttered.
“I do,” said Hyder. “Give the key back here, Tante. I’ll finish as quick as possible, and then we shall have us some lunch.”
Before their chatter had died down, Hyder had already begun to do what he did best: he began to Mask himself. At once, everyone went silent to watch him.
With his fingers, he tugged and pushed at the air around his head, as if there were an invisible piece of cloth enwrapping it. Piece by piece, they watched his face change to that of another. Shaggy brown hair was replaced by waves of blond, immaculately-combed; expressive grey eyes turned green. All at once, he was no longer Hyder: he was the Arcane King’s younger brother, Aleigh Luzerno.
Ruthenia stumbled away in surprise. Being a student at one of the most expensive schools in the nation at Tanio’s insistence (and by his financing), it so happened that the royal priss was her classmate, and she could say with full confidence that the resemblance was perfect, right down to the supercilious squint of his eye.
“Well, someone’s studied the portraits well,” remarked Den, walking a circle around their friend, who proceeded to Mask his attire.
The Masker returned a characteristic grin, one that looked decidedly strange on his new face. “Do you like it?” he answered, putting on the snooty accent that all the golden-haired Arcanes had. Sniggering, he rolled the Arcane Prince’s eyes and grimaced like an idiot. Everyone was soon bent double laughing.
“These Arcanes sure do dress themselves nicely,” chortled Gordo, tilting left and right to study his friend’s new countenance.
“That’s what makes them Arcanes, innit—velvet, frills, and underwear on too tight!” answered Hyder. Hearing those words out of the Arcane Prince’s mouth had them all laughing again.
The uproar faded as the Masker began a final verbal run-through of the procedure with Den, fiddling with the fishbone key as he went. Ruthenia smiled as the metal pins slid in and out. It would not function as intended here, no. But slide it into a lock, and it would work magic.
Den clapped Hyder on the back. “Put on your best show,” he said. As the Masker departed onto the street, Ruthenia sniggered, trying to imagine what the Helika Morning Herald would come up with this time.
***
Arcane Prince Flirts with Toileting Man: A likely case of out-of-body experience, say experts
Second page, Helika Morning Herald, 14th July 491.
This morning, Arcane Prince Aleigh was reported to have broken into a toilet cubicle in Helika Station and made advances towards the toilet-goer inside.
The victim, Feldon Jayle, was in the middle of his essential activities when he was alarmed to see the door unlock by itself—moments before the Arcane Prince allegedly entered, with a smile he describes as ‘lecherous’, and immediately began to engage in suggestive speech.
‘He came in and started asking me if I wanted to “have fun back in the palace”—I didn’t know what to do,’ describes Jayle, 21, nervous from his harrowing experience.
Upon questioning later that afternoon, His Highness denied rather vehemently having performed either of these acts. The rest of his family, as well as His Majesty, King Hazen of the Ordinary, also readily backed him up, claiming he was ‘at an advisory board meeting’ and did not leave his seat at all during the time of this alleged happening.
Psychology experts have suggested that this is an instance of an out-of-body experience, during which the soul leaves the body in the person’s semi-unconscious state, and moves about independent of it. The person’s mind would register such an activity as a daydream.
‘Come to think of it, Aleigh was a little zoned out during the discussion,’ states Her Eminence, Arcane Viz Talia, mother of the Arcane Prince. ‘I did not think he would harbour such fantasies.’
More investigation will be carried out at a later date. The royal family has requested for the privacy of this case.
Clang went her wrench, spinning across the ground and banging against another plate.
Ruthenia was laughing so hard she was going dizzy. She wiped an imaginary tear from her eye, and continued to bang a fist on her thigh, gasping between long, loud guffaws.
The giggles continued to come intermittently as she set back to work on the open train engine in the middle of the little work shed that was her home. The sky shone blue through the two windows, reflected in the glass dial coverings. She laughed as she drank out of her metal flask, thinking of the myriad jokes she could make at the Arcane Prince’s expense today; the result was a few seconds of choking and a coughing fit.
Ruthenia made good enough speed that school had only just begun by the time she’d finished work. Even with tunnel winds in her favour today, the trip would take her twenty minutes. But twenty minutes wasn’t late, to her. Not particularly.
She tossed her screwdriver into the crowded toolbox, and snatched up her bag and umbrella from the rack by the door, stretching her arms in the spring breeze.
Out on her patio, Ruthenia was halted by a proclamation of her name. “What?” she shouted, turning to the plank bridge between her shed and Tanio’s house, swinging merrily in the blue.
The blond inventor stood in the middle of it, where it sagged the lowest, fingers curled tightly around the rope handholds. He brushed blonde hair out of his eyes, waving a paper packet at her as he crossed. “Lunch!” he sang, setting foot on her wooden patio. Sighing, she held a hand out.
“Lunch” was soggy, as usual, and reeking of the sea. Trying not to wince at the smell, Ruthenia flipped her bag cover open and flung it inside.
“I hear your feedback, Ruth,” said Tanio, “and I assure you, it’s not burnt this time. You’ll know it when you taste it!”
“Thank you,” she answered, waving him away.
It took Ruthenia a solid minute of scrabbling at the air before she finally managed to get her grip on a bundle of Thread. She gritted her teeth as she did, wondering if they were right, if the reason she was having so much trouble was that she wasn’t praying hard enough to Ihir. Then she sniffed. As if she’d ever pray to that awful bird for anything.
It was another full minute before Ruthenia managed to get her umbrella levitating stably—which she celebrated with a pump of her fist. Leaping aboard, she gave the adjacent Threads a sharp tug—and off she shot into the cloud-speckled blueness, leaving the smallest home on Beacon Way behind.
The mile between home and the gate road was all green farmland, rippling on in endless lines across the tiny countryside between here and Baytown. She’d seen the workers before, leading plough cows across the earth, ever flightless.
The floating houses cast their shadows across the fields of young stalks as she passed; watermills rattled in the temperate current, their tall windy counterparts creaking songs.
Ruthenia soared past the mills and ploughs, skimming low over the wheat fields to watch her own shadow dance across them. Far ahead, the entrance to the gate road resolved into visibility, a circular hole that gaped at the intersection of four fields, marked by a daffodil-yellow signpost.
GATE 28 (WEST WIND TUNNEL)
Suddenly the gate roared wide beneath Ruthenia, howling with wind. With a yell she snapped a bundle of Threads so her flight swung into a dive through the mouth.
The sunlight lifted from her skin. Cold Thread light swallowed her whole. With the fright stoking her, she managed to tangle the Threads back about her mount just in time to swerve into straight flight again. She breathed a long sigh of relief, though her tongue quickly grew dry. One of these days that dive would kill her.
As the granite tunnel reached level, a distant loud howl entered earshot. Ruthenia felt the thrill run across her skin while the pressure built up behind her.
The twin rows of Thread lights in the ceiling ended just a few yards ahead. Hunching low, she gripped her umbrella tight and hurtled down the remaining length of the gate.
She shot into the West Wind Tunnel perpendicular to the current. At once a sharp gush of wind slapped her side, tossing her like a limp paper doll into the flow of the underground airway. Air roaring about her ears, she clung on with all her might, pulling her body as close to her fluttering umbrella as she could while the whooshing air continued to throttle her.
The Astran Wind Tunnels were as wide as a cathedral was tall, arching overhead and curving below, cradling a thin river in its base. Tarnished pipes striped the walls, among which other gates intermittently opened, pouring other commuters into the stream. Empty round windows passed overhead, through which circular beams of light streamed, setting the stream below aglitter.
The trickle was low today, but when summer bloomed in full vengeance, she knew it would flood to at least quarter the tunnel’s height. On good summer days, she sometimes verged the surface, watching the koi swirl among the reflections, in their own secret city, foraging amid discarded metal and lost jewellery.
The gale took her westward, and her watch ticked where it hung from her neck, welcoming the balm of the afternoon.
She eventually landed on the eighteenth level of the Central Circle School’s northern tower about twenty-five minutes past noon. At the marble archway, she was greeted by Mr. Nychus, who only shook his head, as he always did, baton slung over his shoulder, and gestured for her to enter. With a nod and a “good day”, she dashed off down the staircase.
The staircase plunged into a vast hallway that echoed her footsteps back to her, and the shadow brought on a chill. She watched the marble pillars flicker by as she ran, the chill deepening.
Ruthenia burst into the classroom as Mrs. Ariera was reaching the climax of another scolding, looking as irate as a raptor ready to rip its prey in two. The blackboard was a mess, and at the centre of the battlefield of white chalk numbers was scrawled a question on lift and drag calculations.
The woman’s hand hung in midair. “Miss Cendina,” she said, dangerously soft.
“Good afternoon,” Ruthenia answered. “May I sit?”
“No,” the Physics teacher said. “Do you have any idea how late you are?”
“Half an hour.”
“And do you know why that is a problem?” she said.
Ruthenia shrugged. “I don’t need to be here.”
A mutter had started up. She caught glares from the right side of the classroom. Ms. Ariera seemed to reel momentarily with rage, struggling to keep it caged inside her. “You think yourself quite capable of managing the Flight Physics syllabus without me, don’t you? You think your intelligence exempts you of having to show me some basic respect?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry for my lateness, then.”
“You’re sixteen, Miss Cendina. How do you expect to survive and flourish in Astran society, the filthy scrap you are? Did your parents never educate you in good conduct?”
Oh, Ihir, now she’d done it. “My—parents?” shouted Ruthenia, a hot lump of anger rising in her throat. “No, they never did!”
Every conversation in the room was simultaneously extinguished.
The two stood, glaring and bristling as if they might pounce any moment.
Then Mrs. Ariera clenched a fist, and let both hands fall. “Alright, I forgot. I’m sorry.” She jabbed the stick of chalk at the board. “You are excused if you can solve the question on the board.” She held the chalk out for her.
Stepping forward to take it, Ruthenia’s eyes leapt to the question at the centre of the swirl of numbers. Consider a glider with trapezoidal wings, of the dimensions shown in the diagram...
Rolling the chalk between her fingers, she bit her lip, memorising and manipulating the numbers in her head. Then she stepped up to the board and wiped a section of the scribbles away with her palm, coughing at the dust.
As she wrote, the stick of chalk clicked and scraped, suddenly the sole noise in the room. Then, with a final flourish, she drew the double-underscore marking the end of her solution, and caught Ms. Ariera’s eye again. “Am I excused?”
Her pause ended with the inevitable. “Well, yes,” she murmured, looking at least somewhat appeased. “Back to your seat, Miss Cendina. Now, do the rest of you understand the solution?”
While the class gave a collective murmur of “no”, Ruthenia sank into her chair and shoved her bag under her table with her foot.
“Great work,” said Alacero from her left, making a fist in encouragement.
On her other side, Calan only groaned. “Talent is wasted on people like you,” he said.
“I’m glad you think I’m talented,” she replied, upending the contents of her bag onto her desk.